


The Next Shore

by hesychasm (Jintian)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, Future Fic, Misses Clause Challenge, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Road Trips, Yuletide, grounders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-02 09:41:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2807927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jintian/pseuds/hesychasm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the war with Mount Weather, Clarke and Bellamy lead a splinter group to form a new settlement on the coast. But the territory they want already belongs to another Grounder clan.</p><p>Branches off from canon post-2x08, "Spacewalker."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Next Shore

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MacyAudenStar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MacyAudenStar/gifts).



> I've taken the name for Lincoln's clan (Tree People) from [David J. Peterson](http://dedalvs.tumblr.com/post/107516269036/do-the-grounders-call-themselves-something-in), the inventor of the Trigedasleng language used on the show.

“This is a moment for moonshine,” Bellamy said, handing Clarke the metal canister.

She knocked back a swallow, and promptly clutched the sides of the table as her eyes watered and her gag reflex rose.

Raven thumped her on the back. “Breathe.”

Monty’s brew got stronger and more toxic every year, but he’d really outdone himself with this latest vintage. Clarke coughed, breathed, and slid the canister over to Raven. “Monty should’ve just poisoned their water supply with moonshine,” she rasped. “The war would’ve been over the next day.”

The three of them turned to look at the man and woman seated several tables away, where Marcus Kane had deposited them before disappearing into the Council’s headquarters. Major Byrne stood near the pair with a complement of armed guards, all of them gripping their rifles uneasily. The two envoys from Mount Weather had arrived bundled up in their usual protective outerwear, but they’d removed their gas masks now. Their ashen faces, still too pale, cast wary glances around the mess area, as much on the lookout for attack as their guards. 

It was Bellamy’s turn to drink again. He handled it a little better than Clarke, but not as well as Raven. “Any bets on how the vote’s going to go?”

“Exactly the way we don’t want it to,” Raven said, snatching the canister before Clarke could take her turn.

“No way.” Clarke shook her head, and regretted it immediately as the moonshine kicked in. “They couldn’t possibly.”

“Wake up, princess. The war fucked us as much as it fucked them. I’m just surprised it’s taken this long for both sides to realize it.” Ignoring how Clarke bristled at the nickname, Raven took another hefty swig of moonshine.

 _Time to get over it_ , Finn’s voice murmured in her head. _You know she only does it to get a rise out of you._

As always, the pain that accompanied the thought of Finn sliced as sharp as an arrow. Clarke grabbed the canister. “The camp won’t stand for it,” she reiterated, and took another burning swallow.

“Damn right,” Bellamy said. “Especially not now—it’s only been a few months since the ceasefire.”

Raven’s mouth twisted. “Most of the camp will agree to anything in their self-interest. And the truth is, we need their tech. We need their medicine. We need their weapons.”

“And they need our blood.” Clarke sat back in her chair. “Which they’ve already stolen more than enough of over two years of war. People aren’t going to forget that.” She glared at the envoys, who had apparently just noticed her. They glared right back; her name and image had become infamous in Mount Weather. “It’s not going to happen.”

But she kept drinking, to drown out the doubts.

*

In the morning, her mother stood in front of the entire assembled camp. From the front row, Clarke could see the dark shadows under Abby’s eyes, the frown lines framing her mouth. A chill settled around her heart.

“We have decided,” Abby said, her voice carrying over the heads of the Ark survivors, “after much argument and debate throughout the night, to allow citizens of Mount Weather to join us here in Camp Jaha.”

Angry mutters followed the first immediate, shocked silence. But Clarke wasn’t listening.

She saw a row of bodies under pale sheets—fifteen of them, drained dry, marked for disposal by the Reapers. The final push of the war had brought the Ark and Grounder forces into Mount Weather in time to prevent that last desecration, but not the deaths. Not the losses. Fifteen of the forty-seven she had vowed to save. Fifteen who had fallen to Earth with her, when they were barely more than kids. Fifteen she had failed.

She saw Lexa pulling the metal mask over her face, hiking her spear as she turned to lead the ruins of her warriors back down the mountain. Heard her say, _We sacrificed our own for our own, Clarke of the Sky People. Don’t ever believe it was for you._

Two years of war, two years of arguing with her own side, defying them, sneaking behind their backs, acting first and apologizing later. She thought she knew the Council’s minds and machinations like a well-read book.

But this…Clarke could never have predicted this.

“How could you?” she demanded after the announcement, pulling Abby aside. “We were at _war_ with them. They treated fifteen of our people like their own personal bone marrow mines. They _killed_ them. They would have killed all of us if they could.”

“That was the Wallaces and Doctor Tsing,” Abby said, with that tone of soothing rationality that Clarke had always hated, even when she heard it coming from her own mouth. “You know most of the residents had no idea what their leaders were doing.”

Clarke was hungover, and in no mood for rationality. “Didn’t they?” she spat. “I’m sure that’s what they want you to believe. The fact that they can even leave the mountain should tell you something. Instead of evolving to survive outside like the rest of us did, they stole the ability. They’re vampires. All of them.”

“You spent time there,” Abby said. “You know all the resources they have which we can use. Which, frankly, we _need_. And we can provide them stability. Their society’s been heading toward chaos since the ceasefire. Whatever their leaders did, innocent people shouldn’t have to suffer for it.”

“Innocent people don’t have blood on their hands!”

“Clarke, the vote is done.” Abby shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

She’d thought, at several points during the first difficult months she and her mother had been on the ground together, that they needed a lot of catching up to know each other again. Two years later, they still haven’t managed it. “At least tell me you didn’t vote with the rest of the Council. At least tell me that.”

Abby sighed. “Were you listening to the speech? We convened a War Session for this. You know how we operate. It was unanimous. It had to be.”

How many times had Clarke heard her mother justify herself with those words? About going after the forty-seven, about the Grounders, about the Wallaces and Tsing…over and over, the same damn argument with the same damn conclusion. 

“I can’t live with them again,” Clarke said flatly.

“You don’t have a choice.”

The attempt at compassion in Abby’s eyes made Clarke’s stomach heave. “Yes, I do.”

*

It was the Council that didn’t have a choice—not about Clarke leaving, or who she recruited to go with her. Even after all this time on the ground, they never had learned to move as quickly and decisively as the ones who’d landed first.

She located Raven in the Engineering department, mouthing off to Wick about some kind of part that was supposed to go on some kind of automated farming implement.

“Fucking finally!” Raven slammed her wrench down on the table, clearly not hungover at all. “When do we go?”

“As soon as possible,” Clarke said. “The Council’s putting together a task force to prepare for the integration over the next few days.”

“Smart of you to steal their best mechanic in two generations.” Behind Raven, Wick snorted, but he was looking at her worriedly.

“I did tell you once that I’d pick you first, didn’t I?”

Raven’s smile was touched with bitterness; all of her smiles were, but especially the rare ones she spared Clarke. “’Cause I’m awesome. But admit it, you only asked me first because you found me before Bellamy.”

“No, I came looking for you specifically. I know no one wants out of this camp more than you.”

“Enough to follow you out of it, princess.”

Clarke controlled the wince this time. “Wick, we could use a good engineer, too.”

“Well, unfortunately for us he’s the only halfway decent engineer available,” Raven said, before Wick could respond. “Let me work on him. You get Bellamy.”

*

The guards on duty told her Bellamy was patrolling the edge of Camp Jaha’s property closest to the mountain ridge. Clarke scanned the high line as she climbed a tree-covered foothill, noting how the peaks turned from green to bluish as her gaze traveled westward. It was the height of summer, she mused, probably the best time of year to attempt a mountain crossing. Except no one from the Tree People had been beyond that ridge—at least, none had returned from beyond.

Bellamy’s patrol route was well-traveled ground, but Clarke was able to distinguish the freshest tracks. On the Ark, it had never made sense to her how anyone could master cutting sign from books and pictures. But she’d done cartography for the Council during the war, and crossing so much terrain to draw detailed maps had given her plenty of opportunity to practice.

Of course, one person had mastered it despite the disadvantages. _Torn leaf, probably caught on a rifle sight_ , Finn’s voice whispered in her head.

She adjusted her path to follow the trail. The trees opened onto a downward sloping grassland, providing a vantage point over the narrow valley between the foothill and the mountain ridge. But as she drew to a stop before leaving their cover, she realized she’d lost Bellamy’s footprints. There was no sign of him anywhere now.

A whistle sounded from the branches overhead.

She craned her head and caught sight of him halfway up a tree, sitting easily against the trunk with his rifle slung across his lap. “What are you doing?”

“Checking out the view.” He leaned over to grin at her through the foliage. “Climb up.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Come on, princess. You’ve gotta see this for yourself.”

“Those branches look way too thin. You’re going to come crashing down any minute.”

Leaves rustled as Bellamy shook the branch he was sitting on. Clarke’s heartbeat stuttered. “Nah, this tree’s one of my favorites. Get up here.”

 _I’d do it_ , the Finn in her head said.

So she hauled herself up, the toes of her boots scrabbling ungracefully for purchase, lichen-coated bark scraping her palms. She didn’t look at Bellamy until she’d settled herself on a different branch on the other side of the trunk from his, her feet dangling an alarming distance from the ground. Together they balanced the tree. When she finally did turn to him, gripping the trunk with white-knuckled hands, his dark eyes danced merrily. “Now look out there,” he instructed.

The first thing she saw was the small valley, of course, stretching below in various shades of green beneath the opposite slope up to the mountain ridge. Then she saw the water, a reflective pane at the bottom of a verdant bowl, with an artificially sharp line marking the dam. Tucked to one side of the lake, near the top of one peak, were a few spots of gray concrete, too far to make out properly. “Mount Weather,” she murmured.

“I like to keep an eye on it,” Bellamy confirmed. “Habit.”

“As of today, you won’t need to anymore.”

His expression darkened. “How’d your mom explain the vote?”

“Does it matter? Our interests don’t align and they rarely have. I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to realize it, but this is the last time I put my trust in her.”

His long, elegant fingers tapped the handle of his rifle. “So what are you gonna do?”

“I can’t make peace with Mount Weather. It was hard enough with the Grounders after…” She paused, and avoided the sympathetic look he sent her. “But I recognized that we needed them. There’s nothing the people from Mount Weather can give us, nothing that even comes close to what they took.”

“You don’t have to sell me on whatever you’re thinking, you know. Whatever it is, I’m in.”

“What if I asked you to leave with me? I mean, really leave—leave all of this behind.”

His mouth tilted into a smile, thoroughly unsurprised. “With you and Raven, you mean.”

“You, Raven, me. Octavia and Lincoln, obviously. Monty and Miller if they’ll agree. Maybe Wick, if Raven can convince him. Anyone else?”

“Depends if you want this to be a stealth operation or the Exodus.”

“Somewhere closer to stealth. It’s probably best if we go as soon as possible, before the Council realizes we’re taking all their best people. So we should keep it small, for easier mobility.”

“A secret like this won’t keep for long. But we shouldn’t turn away people who want to come with us.”

Clarke frowned. “We can’t just take anyone. What if we end up traveling a long way? Or run into Grounders even less welcoming than the Tree People, as impossible as that seems?”

“That’s a reason _for_ a big group. Safety in numbers.”

A high breeze blew through the top of the tree, making Clarke and the leaves shiver. “Bringing more people means potentially losing more people.”

Bellamy’s boots kicked out into open air as he swung his feet. “The ones who come with us will be choosing to take that risk for themselves.”

They hadn’t had this argument in a long while. “It’s never that simple and you know it.”

“It’s not only about us. You think we’re the only ones unhappy with the Council? The Ark was headed for rebellion well before they sent the hundred down, and I’m not just talking about the conspiracy to shoot Jaha. And the war’s been a pressure cooker. Do you realize we still haven’t had any new babies born in the camp? Not even firstborns, much less siblings.”

They’d had _that_ discussion more times than she could count; even with the great equalizer that was war, class resentments died hard. And for Bellamy, of course, the freedom for people to have more than one child was paramount. But he was right. No one had come to the medical tent to get their contraceptive implants removed. No one was ready to bring more children into their lives.

He wasn’t finished yet. “With the ceasefire, I’ve seen people starting to hope again. We’re starting to wake up and realize we’re in the world we wanted. We only have to accept the corruption of some bullshit hierarchy if that hierarchy controls the limited supply of something: air, food, water, living space. But here on the ground, those things aren’t limited anymore. With the war over, we can finally breathe freely. Literally.”

As always, his speechifying caught her breath. She took a moment to recover and listen to what he was really saying. “It sounds like you do want an Exodus.”

Bellamy shrugged. “If that’s what it becomes, so be it.”

“It won’t if you keep your inspiring speeches to yourself.” But she was suddenly too tired to get into it. “Will you at least bring Octavia and Lincoln onboard? I’ll talk to Monty and Miller. If more people want to join…we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” 

“Where are we going to go?”

Clarke looked toward the west, to the blue mountains and the wild horizon beyond them. Then she turned her head and looked toward the east. It was still hilly in that direction, but the breeze coming from it was sweet. She could almost believe it carried the scent of some nebulous, abstract thing like promise, or hope, or the freedom Bellamy had spoken of. “Lincoln talks sometimes about the Grounder clan that lives by the ocean,” she said slowly. “I don’t want to live with them, necessarily. But it’s a big, long coastline. There has to be somewhere peaceful for us to settle.”

“I _would_ like to see the ocean.”

“Ask Lincoln about it when you talk to him and Octavia. I don’t think we can go without them—we’ll need Lincoln’s help with other Grounders for sure.”

Bellamy tilted his head. “I wouldn’t go without Octavia no matter what.”

She almost felt ashamed of herself, but she couldn’t apologize for how blunt the truth sounded. “Of course,” she said. “They will come with us, right?”

“Now that Mount Weather’s invading? Definitely.”

Clarke studied the view below, taking in the full landscape, as far as her vision could discern. It might well be the last time she ever laid eyes on it, on the first place she’d known as home on Earth. Finn and Wells were buried down there, along with over half of the hundred. She’d killed her first human being in those woods, slipping Charlotte’s makeshift knife into Atom’s jugular while she hummed him to sleep; and not much later she’d given the order to burn an army of Grounders to death.

And yet she’d become a healer as well, nursing so many back to health with the crude tools at her disposal, fighting viruses and poisons, setting bones, stitching and cauterizing wounds, restarting hearts. She’d become a leader, she and Bellamy both. She’d never abandoned her people, no matter what it cost her.

But she was so _tired_ now. She could walk to the ocean, she thought. She could do that much. But once she reached it, what then?

*

Bellamy was right: they couldn’t keep their departure a secret. The first hint Clarke had that word had gotten out was when Jasper cornered her a few hours later in the medical tent. Abby was away in a Council meeting—during the war she’d steadily transitioned from mostly-a-doctor to mostly-Chancellor, leaving Jackson and Clarke with increasing levels of responsibility. But Clarke still could have throttled Jasper when he stormed into the tent and announced, right in front of Jackson, “You’re seriously thinking of leaving?”

Clarke hurried him right back out, steering him toward her tent. “Who told you?”

“Monty.” Jasper’s eyes flashed. “Clarke, you wouldn’t last a week out there.”

“I won’t last a week here.”

“So, what, you were just gonna leave without telling anyone?” Jasper huffed out a resentful breath. “Without telling me?”

She was unable to explain herself suddenly, and so she fell back on Bellamy’s philosophy. “Would you actually come with us? You can…if you want to.”

She watched him struggle with the question, and then his face fell. “Maya wants to stay with her people when they join us. And I…I want to stay with Maya.”

Clarke nodded. “That’s what I figured. We’ll be sorry to lose you.” She didn’t say _both_. “Please don’t tell anyone else what we’re planning. I don’t know what the Council’s reaction will be, but I’d rather avoid any potential confrontations.”

“I get it,” he said reluctantly. “And I get why you’re doing this. But for the record, I think it’s a terrible idea.”

“Noted.” A thought occurred to her, and she chose her next words with care. “Jasper, when are you on duty at the supply shop?”

He knew her too well. “You can’t steal from the camp!”

“We’ll only be taking a little more than our allotted share. I don’t know how long we’ll be on the move, and we’re going to need things. Anyway, once the camp integrates with Mount Weather, you’ll double your provisions. You won’t even miss what we’ve taken.”

“It’ll be missed,” Jasper insisted. “You know the Council hasn’t relaxed its restrictions an inch.”

“Things will be different now that the war’s over,” Clarke said automatically. It was what she’d hoped for two long years, and even if she no longer believed it, Jasper still did. “Besides, the punishment for stealing is exile. We’d basically be serving that out anyway.”

“You don’t think you’re coming back? Like, ever? Where are you going to go?”

“Far enough that the Council can’t easily reach us,” Clarke said vaguely, then shrugged. “I asked when you’d be on duty because I wanted to give you a choice. We can either get what we need on your watch, or we can leave you out of it entirely. Just make sure you have a good alibi for the Council.”

“Some choice,” Jasper muttered. “Get blamed or set someone else up to take the fall. I go on duty at nineteen hundred hours. You might as well come then. ”

“I’ll tell Bellamy.”

*

A woman came into the medical tent with a broken finger at eighteen-fifty, so Clarke was a little late arriving at the supply shop that evening. It was a long, low structure, cobbled together from remnants of Alpha Station’s observation deck and school hall. It still sometimes startled her to remember that part of the north wall was actually the floor where she and Wells had stood together for many an hour, staring down at Earth. The large counter across which supplies got distributed to camp residents had been hammered and welded together out of three student desks; she and Wells had carved their names across the corner of one when they were twelve, and the marks were still visible.

It struck her then: leaving Camp Jaha meant leaving the pieces of her old home behind as well.

She went around the back of the shop, trying to avoid notice, and heard Octavia’s voice floating through the thin metal door. Apparently Bellamy had asked her to join the shopping expedition.

“—she uses people like tools. Lincoln’s clan was pretty much cannon fodder to her. I know that never bothered you before, but I’m guessing this new colony of hers is going to be Grounder-free. Without them, who’s she going to consider disposable now?”

“Come on, O. That’s never been how she thinks. There’s no one more loyal than Clarke.”

“Really, Bell? I can count on one hand the number of people she’s truly loyal to, and still have fingers left over. And for God’s sake don’t ever do the wrong thing in her eyes—you might as well be dead to her then.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Why do you think she didn’t tell Jasper? I remember her freezing out Jaha’s kid, too. And I’m guessing now it’s her mom’s turn.”

Clarke leaned quietly against the wall, all the strength draining from her body.

“Look, we can stand here and argue in circles, or we can get what we came for and go. But as far as I’m concerned, Clarke wants us to have the best chance to survive out there. If that means stacking the deck with the right people, I’m all for it.”

“Thanks a lot, Bellamy,” Jasper said quietly.

“I’m over you taking Clarke’s side in everything,” Octavia snapped. “She isn’t always right. You used to know that.”

“She’s saved all of our asses plenty of times over. Anyway, what are you saying, you don’t want to come with us?”

“I’m saying I have my own reasons, and Clarke isn’t one of them. I just wish you felt the same.”

It seemed that was the end of the discussion. Clarke heard rustles and clanks as Bellamy and Octavia gathered whatever they thought they needed. She remained outside the door for a few more minutes, surprised at how calm she felt. Or maybe it wasn’t calm, exactly, but…distant. The things she’d overheard were like baubles dropped in her lap; she could pick up each one and examine it with a cold, clinical detachment, as if it had nothing to do with her. 

Probably that was a good thing; she couldn’t afford to let herself be angry at Octavia. She really did need her and Lincoln. And it wasn’t as if Octavia had kept any of her feelings secret with respect to the Council’s use of the Grounders in their war tactics—she’d expressed herself loudly and vehemently every time. And true, many of those tactics, especially the bloody final push, had developed from Clarke’s ideas. It made sense that Octavia, and probably Lincoln as well, harbored some resentment toward her. But as long as it didn’t get in the way of them working together now, Clarke could live with being the bad guy.

She squared her shoulders and pushed into the supply shop. There was a flourishing black market in Camp Jaha, born almost as soon as people’s boot heels had hit the dirt, but the shop was where most of the legitimate communal property was housed, manufactured, and distributed. The back entrance opened onto the large storage room, and another door on the opposite wall led to the work room where Jasper spent his shifts. She could see Jasper through that doorway now, bent over a table where he seemed to be mixing chemicals—she knew he’d been working on food preservatives lately.

But it was Bellamy and Octavia, working in the storage room, who caught her attention. Bellamy was in the clothing section, sorting through what looked like piles of socks and sweaters. Octavia was in the food section, collecting dehydrated soy packs in a knapsack.

Clarke went over to Octavia first. _Proving something to yourself?_ the Finn in her head asked. She ignored him. “God, I was hoping I’d seen the end of those. Not to mention they must be years old now.”

Octavia cut her eyes at Clarke. “They’re just in case. Lincoln says the forests all the way to the ocean are full of good hunting.”

Bellamy had reported, earlier that afternoon, that Lincoln had strongly urged heading southeast. It would require at least eight days on foot to reach the ocean, over largely flat land, if they kept to ally territory.

“Well, hopefully that means we won’t need too many soy packs,” Clarke told Octavia brightly.

Bellamy gave her a sardonic grin when she went over to help him sort clothes. “I know it’s summer now, but I’m sure you’ve noticed winter keeps happening every year. We’ll want a good stock of these.”

Clarke stuck a finger through a ragged hole in the sweater she’d just picked up. “This looks like it’ll fall apart before winter.”

“Nah.” Bellamy took the sweater back. “It’s a good piece—see how thickly knit this cabling is?” He folded it with quick, sure hands. “Take it from the son of a seamstress.”

She wanted to thank him for defending her to Octavia, but she didn’t want him to know she’d overheard. “Raven’s going to bring walkies and a couple of radios. And I snuck some things out of the med tent. If we can get another couple of guns and some ammo, we should be set.” She said it with more confidence than she actually felt.

Bellamy, a master at projecting false confidence, saw right through her. “Starting to feel a little real now, huh?”

“Of course it’s real.”

He raised his eyebrows at her irritation, unaware that he’d pricked her bubble of detachment. “Real enough to leave before dawn? Because word’s spreading fast. By this time tomorrow it’ll be all over the camp.”

“Section nine of the fence is the southernmost one.”

He drummed the table. “We’ll need to time it so we slip out between guard patrols. That section should be clear between oh-five-hundred and twenty after.”

“So our window’s between five after and fifteen after.” She turned and headed for the door. “I need to check on Raven. Will you be able to get the weapons?”

Bellamy’s voice followed her into the night. “Affirmative, princess. I’ll see you there.”

*

_It’s cowardly to go without saying goodbye_ , Finn said, as Clarke slipped through the fence wires. _What if those were the last words you ever exchanged with your mother?_

She shifted the straps of her heavy pack and turned to watch the rest of their group come through the fence. Despite the tight timing, most of them had gotten to the rendezvous point before her, waiting in the darkness in grim silence. She hadn’t gotten a good look at all of their faces yet, still floored by the sheer number of them.

Octavia ducked under the wires first with Lincoln close behind, followed by Monty and Mel. Then Miller, whose father had been killed in the final push, before they could reunite. Raven nodded at Clarke as she passed with Wick in tow, lurching a bit on her bad leg. Clarke did a double-take as she saw Murphy slink after them. Monroe. Fox. Jones. More faces streamed past, most of whom had spent time in Mount Weather. There were almost forty total, and no one over the age of thirty.

Finally, Bellamy came through. “That’s all of us,” he said, voice pitched low.

“It’s a lot more of us than we talked about yesterday,” Clarke said severely.

“You said we’d cross that bridge when we came to it. This is the bridge; we’re crossing it. Patrol’s going to swing through in five minutes. Let’s move, people.”

Biting back useless protests, Clarke fell in beside him, letting Octavia and Lincoln lead the way. Those two were as swift and stealthy as any Grounder scouts, but Clarke was relieved when everyone else kept up with a minimum of noise. Not everyone had seen combat over the past two years, but they’d all learned how to walk on Earth nevertheless.

“I guess it’s not as big a group as it could have been,” Clarke muttered to Bellamy after an hour. “We’re making good time.”

He didn’t respond right away. “Did you get much sleep last night?”

“Not really,” she confessed. “Too jittery. I feel wide awake, though.” She thought it was as much the atmosphere as the thrill of leaving: the crisp morning air, the scent of the trees, the energy humming between everyone as they hiked.

Bellamy interrupted her musings. “Jasper wasn’t happy you just left the supply shop like that.”

“I had a lot to get done.”

_After everything you’ve been through with Jasper, that’s all you have to say?_

“He only wanted a moment with you.”

She ignored both Finn and Bellamy, and picked up her pace, weaving through the quiet column. Raven glanced at her and looked like she wanted to say something, but Clarke passed her as well. Eventually she settled in behind Octavia and Lincoln, knowing neither of them would bother her with talk.

Dawn hit just as they began to climb out of the valley. At the highest point, Clarke gave into the urge to take a last look at Camp Jaha. It was a few miles behind them now, cupped in the wide palm of the landscape—the luckiest landing of all the Ark stations. The jagged metal semicircle caught the sun, reflecting and refracting the light over the complex of tents and buildings. Despite two years of protracted war, the camp had still somehow swelled beyond its original borders. It might even be considered a village now.

“Humanity not only survives. It thrives.”

Clarke turned to Bellamy. “What’s that from?”

“Hei Megana. The last of the original Grounders to die on the Ark.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “You’re always surprised when I know my famous quotes.” 

Most of the group had paused to take in the view. Octavia and Lincoln had crested the hill without stopping.

Clarke took a swig of water from her canteen. “I’m not surprised,” she said, but she was. Lightly, she suggested, “If you’re reciting inspirational quotes, maybe it’s time for an inspirational speech.”

The smile faded from Bellamy’s face. Most of the group had been listening to their exchange, and now they looked at Bellamy expectantly.

She was anticipating some rousing rally cry about how strong they were, about how they were forging a new path for themselves, claiming the Earth as their home finally, breaking free of old chains. But instead, he turned to face the valley, his eyes fixed on Camp Jaha.

“In peace, may you leave the shore.” His voice was steady and strong, a slow and rhythmic recitation. “In love, may you find the next.”

One by one, the rest of the group turned with him, staring at Camp Jaha. Clarke noticed Mel and Monty holding hands. So were Monroe and Jones.

“Safe passage on your travels,” Bellamy intoned. “Until our final journey to the ground. May we meet again.”

Multiple voices echoed, low and thrumming in chorus: “May we meet again.”

Clarke stayed silent. So did Raven and Murphy. But as they all turned away to continue down the other side of the hill, her heart seemed to lighten. It was because they were finally leaving, she thought. Because the past had been a burden for too long, and it was time to start letting it go.

*

They continued to set a good pace, thanks to the land flattening out. They were still in Tree territory, but the treaty allowed Sky People to pass through so long as they had a Tree escort, and Lincoln still counted. That was actually to their advantage—it would take the Council at least a day to arrange their own escort to chase.

Sometimes, Clarke was sure she could sense eyes on them, the watchers camouflaged in the trees, and that never did feel any less hostile. But they were left alone.

Lincoln called a halt before sundown, and Fox got a fire started while everyone sorted out sleeping arrangements. Octavia passed around strips of deer jerky and flatbread, which Monty supplemented with dried tomatoes and the ever-present moonshine.

Clarke sat to one side, listening to the others chatter. The sun sank below the tree line, leaving the camp in dusk.

“Look over there.” Raven’s voice at her shoulder.

A flock of butterflies was swooping through the trees, high overhead, delicate wings glowing in iridescent yellow and orange. Each one must have been the size of her hand. “Gorgeous,” Clarke whispered.

“Survived and thrived,” Raven agreed.

They shared silence for a few minutes, until Clarke ventured, “How’s your leg holding up? I know we had to hike fast today, but once we’re far enough we can slow down a little.”

“Nobody needs to slow down for me.”

Chastened, Clarke watched the fire. She still found wood fires fascinating, the spark and pop as the wood burned, the semi-transparent flames freely devouring oxygen.

Then Raven spoke again. “Thank you. For leading us out of there.”

“I didn’t—" Clarke stopped, not sure what she wanted to say. She couldn’t remember the last time Raven had thanked her for anything. Certainly not since…

“Finn died so we could fight them,” Raven said softly. “So many of us died fighting them. I never forgave the Grounders, but they paid plenty in the end. And at least they didn’t try to come live with us.”

Raven had never forgiven the people of the Ark either, for being so ready to give up Finn to save themselves. But she’d never had a choice about having to live with them, until now.

“And me?” Clarke whispered.

“I understood why you did it.” Raven grimaced. “Eventually. But that’s all you get from me, Clarke. Just let that be enough.” She got to her feet, teetering a little as she rotated on her bad leg, and went to the other side of the fire.

_So Octavia’s not the only one who’s not here for you, then._

“Shut up,” she muttered.

It was still more than Raven had granted Clarke in two years. Certainly more than Raven had allowed Abby. The first year had been…bad. There were a few encounters amongst the three of them which Clarke honestly couldn’t remember; she suspected it was the same for Raven. Better not to. If it weren’t for Mount Weather, Raven’s animosity might never have devolved to cold war status, and from there to their current détente. But Clarke had learned not to push for more.

She sighed and stretched out for sleep, only to find that she’d reached a point where she was too tired to actually drop off. The butterflies disappeared, and the night sky deepened toward black. The stars twinkled, albeit dimmer than they’d ever looked from the Ark. That was one tradeoff of being on Earth which she hadn’t consciously expected. There were others. Sunsets on Earth were beautiful beyond words, but she missed the simultaneous setting of the sun and moon, the constant dance between them in the darkness of space. And she missed the view of Earth itself, the mysterious mass of swirling blue and white and green which every child of the Ark had been taught to yearn for and fear.

Sometimes she found herself missing the Ark’s electric hum, the constant background noise occasionally punctuated by the shushing of the air and water filters. In the Sky Box, when she’d been left alone for hours at a time, those sounds had been her only company. They were sounds she’d come to associate with her father, because she’d spent most of that time grieving for him, and because running those systems had been his life’s work.

She turned onto her side, frustrated to still be awake, and caught Bellamy’s gaze.

“Can’t sleep?”

“Too much going on in my head,” Clarke confirmed. “What about you?”

“I’m keeping the first watch.”

Appalled, she realized she’d completely missed that discussion. The rest of the group had settled down around the fire; their prone bodies looked like shadowy, indistinct lumps. “I can take the watch. You sleep.”

“Not tired.” Bellamy scooted closer. “What’s going on in your head, princess?”

He used the nickname less these days, after she’d damn near bitten his head off about it, a couple of weeks after Finn. But his voice was gentle, so she let it slide. “If you could wish on a shooting star right now, what would you wish for?”

He contemplated the fire, as mesmerized by it as she’d been. She thought back to countless nights and countless fires during the war, when they’d frequently been the only two people left awake on an expedition, worrying together and separately, never certain if they’d still be alive by the time the Earth had completed another rotation. And now here they were, against all the odds.

“Come on,” she pressed. “You must have thought of something since the last time I asked you this.”

Bellamy shrugged. “I just want our people to be safe. You?”

“Same. Of course. But if I’m going to be wasting hopes on superstitions, I might as well go big, right?”

“So what would you wish for, then?”

She rolled the words in her mind before speaking them. “The people I’ve lost. I’d wish for all of them to come back.”

_What happened to letting go of the past?_

“It’s a shame they can’t see the future we’re working toward,” Bellamy said quietly. “A damn shame.”

She studied his profile in the flickering firelight. It was too dark to make out the freckles she knew were there. “What future do you see, exactly?”

He took so long to respond that she almost turned back over, assuming he didn’t want to continue the conversation. But then he said, “I see Octavia and Lincoln having as many children as they want. I see Monty growing fields of fresh fruit and vegetables, going on for miles. Raven fixing up all the old cars and planes, teaching us how to travel like our ancestors. Murphy…learning how to meditate.”

A small laugh escaped Clarke, startling her. It sounded foreign to her ears. “And you and me?”

Bellamy smiled. “I see the both of us living to a ripe old age. All that blonde hair of yours turning white. Maybe by then you’ll have figured out how to relax and have fun on your own, instead of only when someone tells you to.”

She was starting to feel drowsy now; at least, that was the likeliest explanation for her ongoing mellow humor. “Me with white hair? I’m trying to imagine _you_ that old. Can’t do it.”

“I think the term you’re looking for is _silver fox_.”

“No, I think the term I want is _delusional_.” Another chuckle bubbled out of her. “I do like the sound of that future, though. You deserve it.”

“So do you.”

Her eyes fell shut, and her head drifted to the side. The fire warmed her face. “Bellamy?” she murmured. “I’ll take the next shift. Wake me.”

“No chance, princess,” he murmured back. “Just enjoy your sleep.”

*

She didn’t enjoy it, or any of the other sleeps she managed over the next few nights. She’d had a brief respite from bad dreams during the months of ceasefire with Mount Weather, but they were back with a vengeance now. It didn’t help to bed down in an unfamiliar place each night, either—she could never quite feel secure enough.

Finn usually showed up at some point, and often her father and Wells. Occasionally her mother, which always sparked an irritable mood the next day.

She wasn’t the only one troubled by bad dreams, and never had been. Many sleeps in the past two years had been interrupted by someone shouting from night terrors, waking everyone nearby. The second night of their journey, Monty shared around some leaves which, when brewed into a tea, were supposed to help. But Clarke declined. “I need to stay alert.”

“You can’t do that without sufficient rest.” He always managed to make admonishment sound caring.

“I’m fine. Other people need it more.”

She _was_ fine, more or less. Every morning she was able to wake up immediately after Bellamy shook her elbow, shoulder her pack, and march on. One foot in front of the other, until she could finally stop. That was enough.

*

They left the territory of the Tree People on the third day, entering what Lincoln called the Verge. From that border he led them on a straight, eastward cutting path. “There are three clans here,” he told Clarke and Bellamy. “The Dins, the Hands, and the Bortas. Only the Hands are allied to my clan, but they refused to join the war with the Mountain Men, so relations have been strained.”

“Why’d they refuse?” Clarke asked. She hadn’t been aware the Tree People had reached out to any other Grounders.

“They’re a very powerful clan, but they don’t often battle with others. Only ever in defense. Holding to peace means they haven’t suffered—they’ve prospered. Lexa was fostered there as a child. She might have followed their philosophy as Commander, if things were different.” Clarke wasn’t surprised to hear the regret in Lincoln’s voice. 

Bellamy looked troubled. “Do their warriors at least know English?” he asked. “Just in case things are more than strained.”

“Yes, but it’s taught to the wise women as well—those who’ve become masters of their crafts and have earned a seat at the ruling table. They’re the ones who give travelers permission to pass through their territory, and they’ll want to speak to Clarke before giving it to us.”

She was used to that by now, the need for each Grounder leader to assess her face to face, testing her backbone, interrogating her heart. And she was a master of her craft, as well—or as near as someone could get to mastering the healing craft on Earth. “I’m fine to talk to them. Just teach me the formalities.”

“If we want to settle in the Verge, they will be the ones to negotiate with us.” Lincoln paused. “Any wise woman who has an interest in the matter will weigh in. So it would be best if we were open about our intentions from the start.”

“If they’re peaceful,” Clarke said, “then there’s a chance I can reason with them.”

“Maybe they can reason with _us_ if we can prove _we’re_ peaceful,” Octavia interjected pointedly.

Clarke pressed her lips together.

All Lincoln said was, “I wouldn’t have urged us this way if I thought it was hopeless. But you should be prepared for resistance at first.”

Clarke understood what he meant when it turned out every village they encountered in the Hands’ territory had a table of wise women, and all of them wanted to interview her. The first envoy approached them at noon on the fourth day, as their group converged on a pile of rubble that Lincoln said had once been a major road.

Clarke was walking with her head down, picking her way through overgrown brush with heavy feet and debating whether to call for a halt or attempt to soldier on for another hour. Then Bellamy said her name.

She looked up and realized everyone else had frozen still. At the head of their column, Lincoln was speaking to three figures. Grounders, dressed in dark warrior gear. The alliance with the Tree People had given her enough familiarity to spot the differences and conclude she’d never seen this kind of armor before. But they were undoubtedly Hands—the red painted handprint across each of their faces made that clear.

The formalities required Lincoln to do the initial introductions and explanations, so she took a moment to sip some water and splash her sweaty face. Bellamy’s dark eyes darted back and forth between Lincoln and the envoys, although his expression was calm.

“Clarke of the Sky People,” Lincoln called, and she squared her shoulders and moved forward. In deference to the Grounders, Bellamy walked a step behind her and to the side, his gun slung over his back, his hands free.

One of the envoys, a girl no older than Charlotte had been, looked Clarke boldly up and down. Her dark eyes glittered between the red fingers splayed across her nose and brow. “Our Table will see you.” She blocked Bellamy’s progress with an out-flung arm. “No guns.”

They were used to that with Grounders, as well. Bellamy handed his rifle to Miller and they set off, leaving the rest of the group.

It was in fact an actual table, a low slab of rough wood in an open field, beneath a sky Clarke was convinced bore a yellow tint from the heat. She felt the skin of her forehead prickle as she, Bellamy and Lincoln sat cross-legged in the grass on one side of the table, and knew she’d be dealing with a sunburn later.

Three women left the trees at one end of the field and came to sit on the other side of the table. They were all dressed similarly, in gray flowing dresses of some kind of light breathable material which Clarke envied. Their faces were free from paint, touched with age. She would have put them each at older than sixty—older than anyone Clarke knew personally. Then she thought of Bellamy teasing her about white hair, and studied them closer.

The one sitting directly across from her certainly hadn’t gone white yet. Her hair was a bounty of dark curls, only lightly shot with gray. She met Clarke’s scrutiny with an equally frank look before Lincoln presented her and her companions with a gift of three slim paperback books, which Clarke recognized as loot from Mount Weather. The wise women turned the pages with reverent hands, their fingers tracing the faded ink.

Clarke puzzled over the Hands’ dialect as the girl who had escorted them offered a large bowl of water for everyone to wash their hands. It was softer, slower than the Trigedasleng spoken by the Tree People. But many of the words were unfamiliar to her—she wouldn’t be able to negotiate with them in anything but English.

The girl placed two platters of fruit in front of Lincoln and Bellamy, what looked like apples with a mixed red and green skin, and pears of a dull yellow. She gave Clarke nothing.

The woman who’d been staring at Clarke spoke then. “I am Sana. I hear you are a healer?”

Clarke had guessed right—it was always the most interesting and valuable thing about her to the Grounders. “I am. Do you have need of healing?” 

Sana sniffed. “Bodies are fragile. Someone always needs healing. But we care for our own.”

The other two women shifted in their seats, chins high, and Clarke realized her mistake. “I’m sorry. I only meant to offer whatever help I could give you. Healing is what I’m good at.”

“How do you think we live long enough to become wise?” Sana’s gaze was as cool as winter snow. “If we needed the help of the Sky People, we would have aided your struggle against the Mountain Men.”

“I understand you’re a powerful and self-sufficient clan,” Clarke said carefully. “It’s good that you have good healers. Maybe in the future, there’ll be a situation when help from either side of our table is welcome.”

Sana gave no indication she looked forward to such a day. “Why do you come to our land?”

Clarke let Lincoln’s coaching take over. _Speak only the truth. Speak simply. Never demand._ “My group has broken away from the Sky People. There are thirty-eight of us, including Lincoln of the Tree People. We wish to settle at the shore of the ocean, if the wise women of the Hands Clan will allow it.”

Sana exchanged impassive looks with her two companions. “Do you wish to join the Hands Clan?”

That took Clarke aback. “I don’t think so,” she said slowly. “I believe we would rather remain our own people. But…I wouldn’t rule it out. Maybe. It would depend on what was involved.”

As Clarke spoke, the cold in Sana’s eyes edged toward the vacuum of space. “The only _maybe_ is whether we would accept you.”

“Is there no way for us to co-exist in your territory, as separate groups? We could offer some kind of exchange—maybe not something you need, but something you want?”

Another silent, unreadable communication between the three women. Clarke glanced at Bellamy, and saw that his calm mask hadn’t cracked. In fact, the slight crinkling at the corners of his eyes, and his barely discernible nod, implied that he thought she was doing all right.

“We ourselves want nothing from you,” Sana said at last. “But others of our clan will observe your progress through our territory, and they may ask for trades both large and small.”

“Understood,” Clarke said. “We came prepared for that.” They really hadn’t, but surely her medical training could be useful somewhere. Or Bellamy’s ability with weapons. Or Monty’s knowledge of agriculture and pharmaceuticals. Or Raven and Wick’s knowhow with gadgets. There had to be something they could give the Grounders.

 _She uses people like tools_ , Octavia had said. But Earth was no different from the Ark that way, Clarke reasoned. If people had skills and talents, it benefited the group to deploy them correctly.

“You may not linger near our village,” Sana pronounced. “You may continue to the sea. Hear this, however. If we allow you to stay there, you will need to provide more than fragile paper to prove your worth.” She nodded at the young envoy who’d assisted at the meeting. “Fayn will guide you the rest of the way.”

Clarke barely suppressed a gasp. For a second, she’d thought Sana spoke a different name.

Fayn didn’t look happy; her jaw set and her eyes flashed. But she made an odd sort of bow to Sana, the back of her right fist cupped in her left palm and held in front of her face.

“We will speak again, Clarke of the Sky People,” Sana said. She and her companions rose to their feet and stalked back to the trees.

Clarke’s shoulders slumped. “That could have gone better.”

“I expected worse,” Lincoln said. Fayn snorted.

Bellamy gathered the fruit—neither he nor Lincoln had touched any of it—into his pack. “I count it as a win. No violence, and we’re bringing back dessert.”

*

The dreams about Finn were bad that night. When Clarke startled awake, her soft sobs trailing off into gasps, she saw that Raven was on watch. She was, in fact, watching Clarke.

Sighing, Clarke got up and went to sit beside her, staring balefully at all the peaceful sleepers. They’d camped for the night next to a small stream, guided by Fayn. Being able to wash had lifted everyone’s spirits—everyone except Clarke, it seemed.

“Why don’t you let Monty help you?” Raven asked.

Clarke shrugged.

Raven stretched her bad leg. Her trousers were wearing thin on that side from rubbing against the fastenings of her brace. “You don’t have to be switched on to leader mode every single minute. The rest of us can handle things, too.”

 _She’s right_ , Finn said, and Clarke’s breath hitched. In the dream, she’d been the one tied to the post, and he’d begged for her forgiveness as he stabbed her over and over. 

“I think about him all the time,” she heard herself saying. “He’s always in my head, talking to me.” Beside her, Raven tensed, and Clarke gulped, clenching her jaw hard to keep herself from saying anything else. She remembered enough from that first year to know it was never okay for her to bring up Finn—only Raven was allowed to do that.

But after a long pause, all Raven said was, “He never could let people go.”

Clarke wrapped her arms around herself. “What about you?”

“Of course I…” Raven trailed off. “Look, we’re not crying on each other’s shoulders.”

“That’s not what I want either. You don’t have to—”

“No, just let me talk.” After a moment Raven began again, slow and halting. “There were times during the war when I…” She shook her head. “I always wanted to live. Even if it meant living without Finn. Even if it meant living with you. But there were times when I honestly wondered what the point was. I just never thought we’d get here. You know?”

Clarke thought she did, but… “We’re not anywhere yet. We’re homeless.”

“We got this far. We did the hard part. Now we’ve got a chance to start over. For real, this time.”

“You sound like Bellamy,” Clarke sighed. “He’s got this whole future envisioned.”

“He’s right. Why leave Camp Jaha unless you had something better in mind?”

“But I really didn’t have anything better. I just couldn’t stay. I thought you felt the same.”

“I did. But that next shore we’re supposed to be finding in love and peace and all of that? It’s almost here. For once we’ve got something to look forward to, besides just making it through another day.”

 _She’s right again_ , Finn said.

Clarke didn’t respond. But when Raven turned the night watch over to her, leaving her alone by the fire, those parting words kept echoing in her mind.

*

The next few villages were much like the first one. There was always an open field, where no one could approach the ruling table without being seen. At each table, a handful of wise women met with them, shared food with them—and declined to make a decision about whether they could settle.

Lincoln reassured Clarke that prolonged and opaque deliberation was the way of the Hands. “The important thing is the ruling tables have broken bread with us. That guarantees safe passage out of each village they do it in. And Fayn’s presence allows us safe passage into the next one.”

“You and Bellamy have broken bread with them,” Clarke grumbled. “I never get offered food.”

“Wise women always eat last,” Fayn said, entirely without sympathy. She had a habit of brooding beside the fire each night, interjecting brief pronouncements into conversations going on around her, and then falling silent again. “What leader satisfies herself before the needs of her people and her guests?”

Bellamy’s eyes twinkled at Clarke above the corn husk he was peeling. “Oh, our princess _lives_ that philosophy.”

Clarke snatched the corn husk from Bellamy. “Last I checked, you were leading this group with me. Raven!” She tossed the husk to Raven, and was rewarded with an actual grin.

Fayn harrumphed and said no more. Away from the wise women’s tables Bellamy resumed equal standing with Clarke, but like most Grounders they’d met, Fayn found the notion not only foreign but somewhat distasteful. She solved the dilemma by not acknowledging Bellamy at all.

“She might be warming up to me,” Bellamy told Clarke.

“I think you’re just sitting too close to the fire.”

When he smiled at her, Clarke glanced away quickly, her cheeks warm. Maybe _she_ was too close to the fire.

Octavia, sitting with her back propped against Lincoln’s, raised an eyebrow. Clarke pretended not to notice.

That night, neither she nor Bellamy had first watch. He bedded down next to her, which was nothing new in her experience, but this was the first time he’d done it since leaving Camp Jaha. She found herself wrestling with whether to move to a new spot. Finally, she decided it would draw more attention than it was worth, and laid down with a precise half-foot of space between them.

“Clarke,” he said after a moment, and despite those careful inches his voice seemed to be right next to her ear. 

She suppressed a shiver. “Yeah?”

“Did you drink any of Monty’s tea?”

“No. You?” She knew he hadn’t, either, but until now he’d never mentioned it to her.

“No. Just wanted to warn you…in case.”

“It’s okay. I get it. And…same to you.”

She felt his hand touch hers, just a brush of knuckles, as slight as the blades of grass beneath them, and a long slow breath sighed out of her.

But in the morning, she was surprised to realize that for once, neither of them had awakened from bad dreams in the night.

*

At the fifth village, on the sixth day of their journey, they were finally allowed to offer something. When Clarke asked, the two wise women at the table turned the same flat-eyed stare on her that their compatriots had. But this time, one of them said, “Several of our homes sustained damage in a recent storm.”

She almost couldn’t contain her surprise. “Are you saying...do you want our help with repairs?”

“We will provide shelter in exchange for the labor of your hands.”

“Really, that’s all you want?”

The wise woman’s mouth tightened. “You think this work is so small?”

“No,” Clarke said quickly. “We’d be happy to help.”

There was no telling how long it would delay them, but they were deep enough into the clan’s territory that she doubted there was a chance of anyone from Camp Jaha chasing anymore. The thought sent a small pain through her chest, and for the first time she allowed herself to wonder if she would really never see her mother again.

The village, nestled in the trees, was one of the largest Grounder communities Clarke had ever seen, with hundreds of residents. She supposed that was why they had deemed it an acceptable risk to allow thirty-eight vagabonds inside.

Despite having to leave their weapons outside the village borders, everyone in the Ark group seemed more than willing to pitch in with repairs, sensing the promise in it. The houses were made of wood and scrap metal, and many did indeed look damaged. Clarke told herself the Ark group would at least be making a positive difference, in addition to hopefully getting in the ruling table’s good graces.

They were assigned to various sections of the village, under the direction of a wise woman named Leah who was apparently the table’s master carpenter. She seemed to have taken the storm personally, as a judgment on her craft, and her bad temper nearly had Clarke snapping back at her several times. She traded Miller for his assignment carting debris, if only because it kept sending her out of Leah’s orbit.

Toward the end of the day, she heard Leah and Wick arguing heatedly about the structure of one house—something to do with supporting walls and overhang. Clarke wiped the sweat from her brow and went over to where Fayn was observing the argument.

“He keeps declaring he is an…engineer,” Fayn said, stumbling a little on the word. “But what does a space man know of houses on the ground?”

“We’ve been on the ground for two years now,” Clarke defended. “We’ve all learned a lot.”

Fayn released one of her usual disparaging hmmphs, and said nothing more.

In fact, the argument seemed to reach a draw. Wick stood nodding as Leah sketched in the soil with a stick, and when he added something to the sketch, she looked thoughtful.

“Are we making friends finally?” Bellamy asked, coming up to them. Fayn, typically, evaporated.

Clarke’s breath caught in her throat. He’d been assigned to some of the heavier labor, helping to lift walls and refit doors. He’d removed his shirt to deal with the heat, and his chest and arms were slick with sweat. In fact, as she watched, a drop fell from one of his curly locks of hair, hit his sternum exactly equidistant between his smooth nipples, and trickled down his stomach toward the low waistband of his trousers.

When she dragged her gaze back up to his face, his eyes were doing that twinkling thing again.

“H-how are we doing?” Clarke asked. “Any estimate on how much longer these repairs will take?”

“We could finish around this time tomorrow, I think. By sundown, anyway.”

“Meaning we can set out again the morning after.”

Nodding, Bellamy said, “Lincoln thinks we could reach the ocean a couple days after that.”

“And then at some point, all the wise women we’ve met decide we’re useless and have nothing to offer, and kick us out of their territory.”

Bellamy shrugged. “If they do, we’ll keep going. We’ve made it this far.”

“Why are you and Raven becoming echoes of each other lately? It makes me think you’re talking about me behind my back.”

“We often do,” he admitted freely.

The argument between Wick and Leah had erupted again, but it had less heat than similar arguments she’d witnessed between Wick and Raven. “It looks like we might well be making friends,” Clarke mused, grateful for the distraction.

“I think the stop was worth it,” Bellamy told her. “Not just for forging good relations, but because I don’t think many of us knew the first thing about building houses. I’m not saying we’re experts or anything, but at least now we won’t be completely in the dark.”

Clarke looked down at her hands, which were dirty and raw in places. “Swords to plowshares?”

His grin told her he recognized that quote as well. “Eventually.”

*

The villagers provided them shelter in a long, open hall which fit the entire Ark group with room to spare. They also shared bread, meat, and fruit. Clarke hadn’t spoken with anyone but wise women throughout the day, due to the language barrier, but she was surprised to see scattered conversations going on between her people and the villagers—or at least, attempts to converse. Mel and Fox were being shown the inside of a fruit which a man had just cut for them. Monty was gesturing to a couple of women, his hands describing a circle and a line which Clarke thought was the shape of the Ark in space. Even Murphy was talking to someone, one of the wise women from the village’s ruling table, although he looked as awkward and skittish as a squirrel.

In one corner of the hall, Octavia was holding a baby, standing next to a woman Clarke could only assume was the mother. The look on Octavia’s face made Clarke’s throat burn.

She walked over to them, but just as she arrived, Octavia handed the baby back. The mother nodded a silent greeting to Clarke and turned away to speak to a man—perhaps the father. She and Octavia watched in silence as the family left the hall, the mother hefting the baby against her shoulder.

“I think she was trying to tell me it’s a girl,” Octavia said finally. “Seven months old.”

“Looks right,” Clarke confirmed. She didn’t have a lot of firsthand experience with babies, the birth rate on the Ark being so low, but she’d studied pediatrics.

“Lincoln told me once…sometimes babies are born wrong. Sometimes they can’t survive.”

Clarke didn’t have to guess what Octavia was really asking. “Our resistance to radiation is stronger than the Grounders’,” she said gently. “That’s what Mount Weather believed.” It was why they’d all gone to war, anyway.

“But there could still be a chance?”

“I can’t quantify it. But I believe you and Lincoln would have better odds than most.” Clarke ventured to touch Octavia’s wrist. “And I’m not just talking about genetics.”

Octavia shot her a quick look—those dark eyes of hers were as expressive as her brother’s. “Really?”

“Really.” Clarke took a breath, remembering the vision of the future Bellamy had described to her beside the campfire. “If you want—after we’ve settled—I can remove your contraceptive implant.”

Octavia’s lips trembled, a smile struggling to break free. “I can probably wait a while on that. But someday.”

Clarke nodded. “Okay. Someday.”

She looked around the hall again, at her people and their hosts, sharing shelter, breaking bread together.

 _This is just the beginning_ , Finn promised. _This is the way it should have been all along._

*

Bellamy’s prediction about them finishing the repairs by sundown the next day was correct, with time to spare, but Clarke had been secretly hoping it would be earlier. If they were really going to be told they couldn’t stay in Hands territory, she wanted to leave as soon as possible, to maximize whatever time they could spend at the ocean.

But even though they had a couple of daylight hours left, Fayn declared they had to spend the night again. This time, instead of being escorted back to the sleeping hall right away, everyone converged on the open field. The ruling table had been carried off to the side, where it joined several other tables laden with food and drink.

“After work,” Fayn explained to Clarke, “we replenish and renew.”

The atmosphere was festive, and Clarke saw even more connections being made between her people and the villagers. A small seed of hope began to sprout in her chest. She drifted toward Leah, whose neutral expression seemed positively pleasant after yesterday.

Her first instinct was to ask Leah how she thought the repairs had gone, to subtly point out all the help the Sky People had provided. But guided by what Bellamy had told her the day before, she said, “I think you’ve taught us some valuable skills.”

Leah raised an eyebrow at her. “Such as?”

Clarke took a moment to find the right words—Bellamy was always the better speaker. “In our time on the ground, we haven’t built much. We’ve salvaged, and repurposed. But if we didn’t have the ruins of the Ark, I’m not sure how we would have survived.”

Leah seemed to understand. “Our foremothers worked with ruins as well.”

“But what you have now…it’s your own. You’ve been able to leave those ruins behind and make something new.”

“Not everything.” Leah pointed out to the field.

Most of the village children had been kept away from the Ark group while the repairs went on—the adults’ acceptance of risk only went so far. But now there were a number of them on the field, all younger than Fayn, running around playing some kind of game. 

And…some of her own people were in the mix as well. Monty, Octavia, Wick, Mel, Jones, Miller. And Bellamy, running around again without his shirt, his golden skin glowing in the late afternoon light.

Clarke took a couple of steps to see better. There was a round ball rolling in the grass, made out of tightly woven reeds. The object of the game seemed to be to kick the ball up and down the field. As she watched, one of the village children captured it between her feet, then darted around Monty, between Wick and Miller. Clear of them, she drew her right leg back and smashed the ball between two vertical wooden posts being guarded by none other than Raven.

The girl pumped her fists into the air, and whoops of triumph erupted from the village team. Laughing, Raven retrieved the ball as the Ark group on the field heckled her terrible goalkeeping. “I’ve never played before, assholes!”

“Football,” Clarke breathed. “My father loved watching this game. But all we had was recordings.”

“We still remember who we were,” Leah said simply.

Clarke had been fascinated by those old videos, the footage of stadiums bursting with spectators, players running on clean, regimented fields—but running with such freedom nonetheless. People who were long dead now, who had no idea what their world would one day be reduced to.

She missed her father with the pain of a spear burning in her heart. And she heard Bellamy saying, _It’s a shame they can’t see the future we’re working toward. A damn shame._

The Ark team was rallying now. Monty seemed to be a natural, driving the ball all the way up to the village goalposts, but their keeper was too good, and blocked his shot. Raven catcalled good-naturedly from her end of the field, and Miller shouted, “You trying to block the ball with your big mouth?”

Raven made a rude gesture, and promptly missed the Hands’ next goal.

Bellamy spotted Clarke then, beckoning her with a grin. “Hey, princess! Come out here! We need to even the odds.”

She hesitated. “I might make things worse,” she yelled back.

“Can’t be any worse than Raven.”

Raven blew a raspberry at him. “Speak for yourself! Come on, princess!” 

Clarke turned to Leah. “I’m probably going to disappoint them, but I’ve always wanted to try this.”

“Then you must.”

She ran onto the field, and Bellamy grabbed her hand and said, “None of us have any idea what we’re doing. I think that’s why they’re kicking our asses.”

“I know what the rules used to be. But I don’t think they matter that much.”

“So we just let these little kids beat us?” Bellamy was indignant.

She squeezed his hand. “I didn’t say we shouldn’t try.”

*

In the morning, Clarke learned why they’d really been delayed. Fayn came into the hall and woke her. “You can bring him, too,” she said, not looking at Bellamy. She crossed to where Lincoln and Octavia were sleeping.

Clarke touched his cheek, and he blinked up at her in the dimness—there were only two small windows in the building, and the sun was just rising. “I think we’re being summoned by the wise women,” she told him.

The grass in the field was dewy, slicking the toes of Clarke’s boots. Fortunately, someone had spread woven mats around the table, made of the same material as the football. The mats creaked beneath them as they sat. Fayn stalked off to stand at a distance, evidently not allowed to enlighten them about what to expect.

“Any idea what they want from us?” Bellamy asked Lincoln.

Lincoln shook his head. “They may simply wish to say goodbye.”

But the wise women who walked out of the trees numbered in the dozens—far more than this one village had. Clarke recognized many of their faces. She’d met them before, at their own ruling tables.

“I think they’ve come to give their decision,” Lincoln said.

Her spirits plummeted. Had they already voted? If so, such a quick vote had to be a no, didn’t it? Beneath the table, Bellamy pressed his knee against her thigh.

The women approached the table in an unruly mass, with no obvious hierarchy until four stepped forward to sit at the table itself. Leah and Sana were the middle two; Clarke didn’t know the two who flanked them. All of the other women arranged themselves on the woven mats behind the four.

“Clarke of the Sky People,” Sana said. “You have asked our leave to settle in our territory, next to the ocean.”

Clarke cleared her throat. “Yes.”

“You wish to settle permanently?”

If she was asking questions, maybe there was still a chance. “We think so. Yes.”

“Will other Sky People join you?”

“I don’t know,” Clarke said honestly. “We weren’t the only ones who had reasons to leave. But…” She glanced at Bellamy. “We couldn’t in good conscience turn our own people away.”

Sana gave Leah one of her inscrutable looks, and Clarke tried to cling to Lincoln’s advice about speaking only the truth. “Would you accept other members of the Hands Clan in your settlement?”

Surprise and hope leapt awake in Clarke’s chest. “If they wanted to join us, yes. I’m sure we have much to learn from your people.”

“Would you allow your people to leave you and live among the Hands Clan?”

“If it was what they wanted. If it would make them happy.”

“What if we required it of you? Your people for ours?”

Clarke thought carefully. “You’re talking about an exchange. Some of your people come to live with us while some of ours live with yours?”

“Correct.”

She tried not to think of it as an exchange of hostages. Lincoln had mentioned Lexa being fostered as a child; he’d implied it was a good thing. “For how long?”

“One month for each cohort, until one year has passed. Should anyone wish to remain longer than their month, they will be allowed.”

“How many? Do we get to choose who goes?”

“Two from the Hands. Two from the Sky People. You choose your own.”

Clarke hesitated, but it needed to be clear. “Weapons? We won’t bring guns. But some form of protection.”

Sana almost seemed to approve. “Each may carry one knife. One spear.”

“Can we begin the first month in one month’s time? We’ll need to learn the area once we arrive, build shelters, ask for volunteers.”

Now Sana’s eyes gleamed. “One week. From today. Before you become too entrenched.”

“Two weeks.” They’d just have to walk faster.

Again, Sana and Leah looked at each other. “As you say. We vote now.”

Each wise woman spoke her vote in the Hands dialect, one after another, but the words for _yes_ and _no_ were easy enough to understand. Clarke counted them as they rang out.

Twenty-one yes votes. Seventeen no votes. Thirty-eight total, equal to the number of settlers.

Beside her, she sensed Bellamy’s elation and relief. It was good that he could feel so intensely; she couldn’t let herself go just yet.

“You have paper?” Sana asked Lincoln. “We’ll show you the land.”

Fayn stepped forward and bent over the table as Lincoln pulled out his book of drawings. Quickly, she sketched a jagged coastline, and another line curving and wiggling from northwest to southeast. “River,” she said, pointing at the latter. She drew an X at one point on the upper part of it. “We are here.” She drew another X just to the north of where the river touched the ocean. “You will be there. Three days’ walk. Do not go below the river. Another clan’s territory begins there.”

It would add an extra day to their journey, but Clarke thought she might have happily accepted thirty more days. “We won’t,” she said. “Thank you.” Clumsily, she made the sign she’d once seen Fayn make to the wise women: the back of her right fist cupped in her left palm, bowing her head behind her hands.

Fayn’s lips twitched. “It’s a horrible parcel of land. You should have negotiated about _that_.”

“No, I knew we’d never get anything easy,” Clarke said, and Sana nodded. Leah smirked, not unkindly. “Anyway, I’m pretty sure however hard the land is, we’ve been through worse.”

“You have two weeks to make it habitable for me,” Fayn said. “I volunteer for the first month.”

Bellamy chuckled. “See you in two weeks.”

*

Three days later, Clarke sniffed the air. “Do you smell that?”

It was salt. Salt and humidity, thickening the already hot air around them. Then Raven turned in a circle, a smile breaking over her face. “Do you _hear_ that?”

A gentle roar, and over it the crash and shush of massive amounts of water rolling onto land, then back out again.

“Let’s get there,” Bellamy said.

They were almost running by the time the ocean came into view, just beyond a thicket of trees. Octavia shrieked, and Monty shouted. The water was dark blue and sparkling, stretching endlessly into the horizon, endlessly from left to right, bigger than Clarke could have ever imagined. The soil turned to sand, and the grass became long windblown blades, and the ocean went on expanding as they drew closer.

They stumbled onto the pale sand, staring in silent awe. White-capped waves slapped down, majestic and thunderous. White birds squawked and swooped in the brilliant blue sky.

“Is it safe?” Clarke asked Lincoln. “Can we go in?”

“Yes. But don’t go too deep—"

Clothes flung onto the sand. Guns and packs, with only slightly more care. Boots. Yelps as bare feet hit the hot sand. Someone grabbed Clarke’s arm—Octavia—and then Raven dragged them into the shallows. She’d kept her brace and her bra on, but that was all.

“It’s warm!” Octavia said, wondering.

Water splashed up from where they invaded. The wet sand at the bottom was cooler, soft and pliable against their feet. They waded deeper, clutching each other, until the water was at their waists. A wave swelled, peaked, and rolled in, the unexpected power of it crashing over them, sending them tumbling. 

Clarke kept her eyes open. Below the roiling surface, the water was full of bubbles, lit by the sun.

She came up laughing, spitting out water, tasting salt. Octavia was splashing Raven, who just stood there shaking her head, grinning. All around, their people were playing. Happy. 

“Clarke!”

She turned toward Bellamy, striding through the waves in her direction, and grabbed his shoulders just as he circled his arms around her waist. He lifted her, easier in the salt water, and twirled her around.

“I can’t believe it,” she gasped. “Bellamy, look at this place.”

One of her ugliest scars was the long one on her forearm, the cut she’d reopened in Mount Weather. He kissed the silvery line, sucking the salt lightly from her skin, and then he set her down again and kissed her face. She didn’t know if the salt on her cheeks was from the ocean or from her tears, but he kissed each of them clean.

“You got us here,” he told her, his deep voice cracking on _you_.

Their bare torsos pressed together, and she stroked the expanse of his shoulders, the sides of his neck, ran her fingers through the wet curls of his hair. She didn’t even think about pulling away.

*

Later, as the sun set behind the beach, Jones and Miller built a fire on the sand. Tomorrow they would all have to begin scouting, constructing shelters, hunting for food. But tonight they sat beneath the star-strewn sky, passing around moonshine, lazily scratching salt-itchy skin. Listening to the ocean’s unceasing rhythms, this part of the planet which cared nothing for what humans did to each other.

“I’ll keep watch,” Bellamy volunteered around midnight, when Clarke began to nod off in his arms. “I don’t think I could fall asleep yet. Not sure how you’re managing it, princess.”

She stretched out, brazenly using his thigh as a pillow. “I asked Monty for some tea.”

His palm cradled her jaw. “Good.”

“But Bellamy?”

“Yeah?”

“Wake me up for the sunrise. I don’t want to miss it.”

===

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to thuvia ptarth, for being the thinkiest.


End file.
